by Laura Wright
Thrill bubbled in Mariah’s throat—the kind that comes from strange, arousing, nonspecific flirting.
It’d been a long time.
Zayad finished off his slice of pizza and the quarter of a beer left in his bottle. “I think it is time for my trip to the back house. If you would rather remain here and watch the television, I would not be offended. Looking over my work may be boring to anyone else but me.”
Was he kidding? Three slices of pizza and a half-a-beer buzz. She was ready to see her sexy neighbor’s swords and maybe even wrangle another kiss out of him. “No, I’d like to go.”
“Very good.” He stood. “The walk is not far but perhaps too much on your ankle—even with the support of your crutches. I will carry you, yes?”
She nodded and allowed him to lift her up once again. If truth be told, her ankle was feeling better, and using the crutches was easy and convenient. But Ms. Ultrafeminist was really starting to enjoy the comfort of this man’s arms.
The cloudless night was generous with its stars, and the curve of moon shone brilliantly. Zayad carried her out the patio doors and onto the grass, wonderfully fragrant from just being cut that afternoon. The walk only took a few minutes, but the mood seemed to change with every step they took. From light to dim to deep in the backyard, very secluded and woodsy.
Mariah had always coveted the small gingerbread-like structure at the back of the property but had never seen inside it, as it always had been locked. Zayad pressed his code into the security keypad beside the door, and they entered. The first things Mariah saw were rough stone walls, beautiful hardwood floors and several hanging lights. A white couch and chair looked to have been pushed to one side of the room to make space for several large, black velvet cases.
Zayad carried Mariah to the couch, making certain her ankle was elevated and that she was comfortable. Then he went to his cases and opened them. Metal gleamed up at him, and with great reverence he lifted two from the case and brought them to Mariah.
“These will soon be going to the two sons of Sheikh Jaran. He rules the country to the south of Emand.”
“Wow, you’ve sold these to a sheikh?”
He only smiled as he placed the long sword on her lap. “This one is Persian.” He ran his fingers slowly up the blade and over the intricately chiseled floral pattern.
Heat fused into Mariah’s belly at the sight. If she asked, would he give her his attention, give her those glorious, sensual strokes that he was now bestowing on a sword?
“Notice the engravings,” he said, his black eyes meeting hers. “In English it reads, ‘Fear not my heart.’”
He slipped the sword from her lap and placed another in its place. This one had a lion-shaped hilt, and the blade was engraved with intricate latticework.
“You hold the Rajput sword. Very old and very rare.” He leaned toward her and grinned. “It is said that Rajput marriages often took place between warring clans. Holding this sword, the groom sent a message to all who might take issue with the match that this woman was his and he would fight for her if the need arose.”
Mariah gazed into his eyes, her pulse racing. “That’s pretty dramatic.”
“I would say so.” His gaze flickered to her mouth. “But when a man and woman give themselves to each other, no person has the right to part them, do you not think so?”
Despite her issues regarding marriage, she found herself nodding. Who was she to disagree with such a romantic notion when Zayad sat so close, his eyes to hers, his mouth looking so warm and inviting?
She fairly sighed. Never in her life had she been so on edge, her skin prickly with heat.
“And this is how our young sheikh feels about his bride to be,” Zayad said, breaking the spell just slightly. “I thought it an appropriate gift.”
“An appropriate sale, you mean,” Mariah corrected.
“Yes, of course.” Outside the crickets started their song as Zayad stretched the Rajput sword out before her like a sacred offering. “Feel this.”
She reached out, brushed her fingers over the metal. “Sharp.”
“But beautiful, yes?”
Yes, he was. She wanted to kiss him so badly, she almost grabbed the blade and pitched it so she could grab him.
“I will put these away. I think we are done for tonight.”
His words made her frown. Cleanup meant carrying her into the house and putting her and her ankle to bed—and not in a good way.
But she was wrong. After he put his swords away, he came to sit with her on the couch. “How is your ankle?”
“Heavy and a little achy.” Just like the rest of me.
“Would you like to go inside?”
“Not just yet.”
He nodded. “You must keep your ankle up until then and stay warm.” He reached for a blanket and draped it over her. “Better?” he asked.
She didn’t nod, couldn’t nod. She didn’t feel better. She felt uptight and needy and a little bit desperate.
He leaned in, brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “What is wrong? Is the pain very bad?”
He smelled of male and metal, and it had been so long. “Zayad, last night when we kissed…”
“Yes?”
He looked casually amused and she felt crazy embarrassed. But then again, she had started this, had blurted out phrases and words such as last night and kissed. There was no turning back. “Did you kiss me because you felt sorry for me?”
“What?”
“Was it because I was a little out of it?”
Why didn’t she just ask him to pick her last for dodgeball? Or maybe—
But Mariah didn’t get the chance to say anything more, think anything more. Zayad’s hands went to her face, his mouth closed in and he kissed her so deeply, her heart fairly leaped out of her chest.
Then he eased back, his gaze fierce. “I do nothing out of pity.”
“I just had to know if—”
“Do not say it again. You insult me.”
He slid his hands down her arms to her waist. Sensation followed him, but Mariah couldn’t revel in the pleasure. She didn’t have time. He was under her shirt, his palm raking up her hot skin, cupping her breast. Heat penetrated the skin beneath her thin bra, and her nipple beaded instantly.
“Your hands feel like heaven,” Mariah uttered, her breathing labored.
“And you are full of life, Mariah.” His free hand held her neck as he nibbled her lower lip, then crushed her mouth beneath his again.
When he pulled back, Mariah released a breath.
“Wow,” she said, her gaze as limp and desperate as her body.
“I do not know this word, but somehow it sounds appropriate.”
“You are attracted to me,” she muttered stupidly.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head.
Solemnity lit his eyes and he gripped her chin, held her steady. “Look at me, Mariah.”
She lifted her gaze, feeling girlish and completely vulnerable.
“Do you not see the way I look at you?”
Did she? She didn’t know. It had been way too long since she’d allowed herself to see a man for a man and not as the enemy in a courtroom. “I don’t think I could notice such a thing now,” she said a little sadly. “My past relationship really did a number on me and on my confidence as a woman.”
“You were hurt?”
“Pretty badly.”
He held her tightly against him. “And it still stings, yes?”
“Yes.”
He said nothing for a moment, just looked at her. Mariah tried to decipher what was going on behind those black eyes, but he was a well-kept secret.
Finally he released her. “I do not wish to hurt you further.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, suddenly feeling empty and cold, her breast aching for his touch again.
“I will not be another man who stings you.”
“Wait. That’s not what I meant by this. I…”
Her words faded out, and she felt foolish. Because of what she’d said, there’d be no more kisses. No more caresses. An end to a delightful flirtation. And just when she was starting to come back to life.
“You are right to be cautious, Mariah,” he began. “I am a man who cannot make commitments.”
Her heart pitched, but she held steady. “I’m not asking for that.”
“But you should. You deserve a good life with everything you desire. When you are ready to take such a chance again, of course.”
Frustration bit at her, sexual and otherwise. “Listen, I don’t need anyone to tell me what I deserve or don’t deserve. Believe me, I’ve spent enough hours on the subject to write a self-help book. I want this—fun, sex, feeling lighter than air for the first time in a long time—with no strings.”
He looked unsure and unconvinced. “I think it is time for our night to end, yes?”
No! she wanted to yell at him. But she didn’t speak up, and he took control. He lifted her and carried her to the house, to her room and to her bed. She fell asleep fifteen minutes later, alone and dreaming of swords and a beautiful, frustrating man atop her nothing wearing but a devilish smile.
Eight
“I am very proud of you, Redet.”
“Thank you, Father.”
It was close to seven in the morning in California, and Zayad had arisen early from his restless sleep on Mariah’s ridiculously small sofa in hopes of speaking to his boy. Zayad missed the child and wanted to hear his voice, hear that he was well and tell him that he would see him soon.
Leaning back in one of the deck’s patio chairs, gazing out at an amazing sunrise, Zayad warmed with care for his son. “I wish I had been as intelligent as you when I was in school.”
“You were not?”
Redet sounded very surprised and Zayad chuckled. “No. I had no head for figures or for the sciences, although I did fairly well in history.”
“What of sport?”
“My father—your grandfather—would only allow me sport if I did well on my exams.”
“And what sport would you have chosen if your grades had permitted?” Redet fairly giggled, for of course he knew.
Zayad smiled. “The sword, my son.”
In the background Zayad heard a bell ringing and the scuffle of what he assumed were children milling about between classes.
“I must go, Father. My second class is to begin.”
Zayad’s heart clenched. He was a man and yet this boy made him ache like a woman. “I love you, my son.”
“And you, Father. When will I see you?”
“In just a few weeks. I come to you straight from America and we will ride together and—”
“Have swordplay?”
“I have found a special sword for you. I will bring it with me.”
From the open patio door Mariah listened. Granted, she’d heard just one side of the conversation, but she couldn’t help but feel that one side was all she needed to hear.
Damn Zayad Fandal!
Why couldn’t he be like all the rest of the charming, intelligent, handsome megalomaniacs she knew? Why did he have to be different—why did he have to have the whole package? Sure, he was a tad arrogant. But strangely that attitude was tempered with a caring, loving and generous spirit.
She watched him as he played with his coffee cup, his thumb gently circling the rim. Her belly tingled. His fingers were so long and tapered, so warm and so strong. She wished his hands would move over her again.
Fat chance, she told herself. Zayad had made his position pretty apparent last night. Mr. Noble was staying clear of her to protect her bruised and battered heart—a heart that had once been so overgrown with weeds, she’d thought she’d never escape its captivity.
But she had. Somewhat. And this man had swung the ax.
“May you remain safe and protected, my son,” Zayad said. Then he paused for a moment, and finally added, “Goodbye, Redet.”
As he clicked off the phone, Mariah made a swift turn back into the house, but with her ankle she wasn’t fast enough to avoid Zayad’s gaze.
“Good morning, Mariah.”
“Morning.” She gave him a sheepish grin. “Sorry for eavesdropping.”
“It is fine. You are walking on your ankle.” His gaze swept her bare legs only partly covered with an oversize T-shirt. “Does it still pain you?”
“Only a little now. The boot keeps it pretty steady. I’m actually feeling pretty good today.”
“How did you sleep?”
“Fine.” If tossing and turning while dreaming of you beside me is fine.
“And what are your plans for today?”
“I have a lot of work to do.”
“Well, sit down and have some breakfast first.”
“Breakfast?” She saw nothing on the round mosaic table but his coffee cup.
“I will make eggs,” he announced and stood, walked to her. “I am getting very good at eggs.”
He looked like all the breakfast she needed, with his wet hair and black sweats, and she fought the urge to fake a pain in her ankle and fall. Maybe he’d lift her into his arms again, hold her close, his eyes penetrating hers as he said, “Let us go to bed….”
The shrill ringing of the telephone interrupted her idiotic fantasy and she turned to tug the receiver from the base on the wall.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me.”
She glanced up at Zayad. “Hi, Jane, how’s the teaching coming along?”
Zayad looked mildly interested, but didn’t stay around to listen to her conversation. Instead he went to the kitchen and started on the eggs. Mariah went outside and sat in the chair he’d just occupied.
“I have the funniest story to tell you,” Jane began with a devilish chuckle.
“Good. I could use a funny story right now.”
After a night of sensual dreams and an early morning rise that consisted of only more thoughts of Zayad and his magical mouth, she needed something.
Jane laughed again, already three paces into her story about her student actress and a disastrous puff-pastry incident. “I warned her not to try it by herself, especially after a night of full-on partying, but you know, she’s got a mind of her own. Needless to say, the fire department was called.”
“Sounds great.”
“Sounds great? What kind of medication are you on? I just said—” Jane stopped short, sniffed. “Wait a minute. Where’s Mr. Tall, Dark and Foreign right now?”
“Making breakfast,” Mariah said sheepishly.
“Ohmigod, you slept with him.”
“I did not.”
“And he was supposed to be mine,” she said dramatically.
“Oh, Jane. No. It’s not—there’s not—”
“Hon, I’m kidding. I never wanted the guy in the first place. I don’t even know him or how gorgeous he is.” She laughed. “C’mon, you so obviously have a crush. And that’s wonderful.”
“No, I do not have a crush,” Mariah said sullenly as she picked up Zayad’s coffee cup.
“Let yourself have a good time for once, Mariah. It’s not going to kill you.”
“How do you know?”
“You’re such a cynic.”
“Sad but true.”
“Well, it’s getting old and so are you.”
“That not only rhymes, but it’s a terrible thing to say.”
“I’m not going to say I’m sorry,” Jane said. “You’re my best friend and I want you to be happy for once. I want you to go for it—for once.”
Mariah mentally shook her head. How could she tell Jane that she was willing and able, but the man in question had integrity issues? “I’d better go. My eggs are getting cold.”
Jane snorted. “Oh, sister, so are mine. We’d both better get going.”
Mariah laughed and said goodbye to Jane. As she hung up, Zayad walked through the patio door with two steaming plates of eggs.
“How is your friend?”
“She’s good. A little irritated by her student, but otherwise good.”
He didn’t ask her why Jane was irritated, but asked instead, “Is she an impatient person?”
“Not at all.”
“Perhaps she does not appreciate having to teach her skills to others?”
“No way. Last summer she spent an entire month teaching kids how to cook down at the community center.” Why did she feel as though she were defending her friend? And why did Zayad make her feel as though she had to?
Mariah quickly finished off the last bite of her eggs. “Well, thanks for the breakfast, but I’d better get going on my work.”
“Work?”
“I have a case to win, remember?”
“Ah. Yes.” He wiped his mouth, tossed the napkin on his empty plate. “Did I tell you that I have a friend looking into this Charles Waydon.”
Shock tore through her. “You do?”
“I said I would help you.”
Yes, but she’d been thinking along the lines of brainstorming or something, not asking someone to do reconnaissance. She didn’t get this guy. Didn’t get him at all. Smart, sexy, helping her, taking care of her. What was he after? If he wasn’t interested in Jane, why was he doing all this? Mariah took a deep breath. Could it even be possible that he liked her—really liked her—but was a little freaked by his feelings and wanted to take things slow?
Oh, who was she kidding? What guy ever wanted to take things slow? “You did say you’d help me, but I didn’t think—”
“You did not think I would follow through with my word?”
“No. Not in such an in-depth way.”
He clucked his tongue. “Such cynicism, Miss Kennedy.”
Her heart lurched. First Jane and now Zayad. She hadn’t really listened to herself in the past few years, but she knew they were probably right on the money. She came across as cynical and very bitter. “The thing is, I don’t expect you to help because you’re honestly not obliged to—as in, you don’t have to. If you want to stop right now, you’re off the hook.”
“I do not want to be off the hook.”
Even biting her tongue couldn’t stop her from asking. The question needed to be answered. “What is it you do want, Zayad?”